Fragile
by RequitedLove
Summary: "If you're gonna be fragile, this is the place to be." – Stewart James - Doc Martin, Episode 1-04.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

I have been writing "Fragile" for months, and avoiding the ff site for weeks, and am finally ready to start posting, when I see that another author has posted a story with the same title. I have not been in these parts for long, so I hope I am not breaking protocol, but I do not want to change my title. I hope the other author will forgive me. I have also decided not to read the other story, yet, but I will someday. (I can now see why my psyche has been pushing me to post already!)

- oo0oo –

**Disclaimer:** Doc Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 1**

"What is it, Martin?" Louisa asked, with concern in her voice. She ran her hand over his head, soothing him with her gentle touch, but she could see the frown on his face in the dim nightlight from the hallway.

Martin lay flat in their bed, without a pillow, as was his way, and looked at her. He could hear his watch ticking on the nightstand, but otherwise the room was silent. He felt warm, yet also clammy, but without a mirror he couldn't be sure what she was seeing.

"What?" he asked. "Nothing." He'd only just woken up, and was trying to get orientated.

Louisa didn't look as though she believed him. He took her hand, which had been lying on his chest, and now could feel how clammy his own hand must feel in her dry one.

"Perhaps the house got humid overnight," he suggested, watching to see if she accepted his explanation.

"Perhaps," she answered, lying back onto the bed beside him, but he had to admit she looked a bit sad at his excuse. He knew it was flimsy, because they'd had this conversation several times recently.

He couldn't possibly wake up over and over again covered in sweat from humidity. And he couldn't possibly tell her the real reason why.

- oo0oo –

**Fragile - End of Chapter 1**


	2. Chapter 2

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**Disclaimer:** Doc Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 2**

Louisa had been wondering where Martin was since she'd picked up James and gotten home after work. Pauline had already gone, and the surgery was closed. She assumed he'd been called out on an emergency, and carried on with her evening.

She sang to James while she fed him, bathed him, and prepared for her next day at school. Just bits and pieces of songs as the lyrics came to her. She had stopped participating in group singing after university choir. She much preferred popular music over heavy choral works.

After starting the yellow butterfly mobile over James Henry's cot, and just getting him settled, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket.

It had been another couple of hours, so she was glad Martin was finally ringing her.

Then she saw the phone's caller ID.

"Hello, Roger," she said, while walking down the stairs.

"Hello, Louisa," replied Roger Fenn, with his friendly rasp. "I'm not calling to alarm you, but Maureen felt I should tell you something."

Why did that choice of wording always seem to have the opposite effect anyway? She tried to keep her voice calm as she flipped on the front porch light.

"Oh?" she said. "What is that?"

"Martin was here earlier. But not for a medical reason. That's unlike him."

"Yes, I suppose." She could hear the happy chatter of Roger's twins in the background. She switched the phone to her other ear as she started to place a few items into the dishwasher.

"He asked me if my father taught me sports, and how old I was when he did. As you can guess, he's never asked me anything like that before. I mean, we've talked, and all, and I didn't mind this, but it WAS different. Maureen was just worried."

"Well, Roger, I appreciate you wanting to share that. Maybe he's trying to be a better friend to you. Maybe that's all it is?"

Louisa asked this with uncertainty in her voice, but Roger, ever positive, reassured her.

"I'm sure that's all it is, and I'm happy to have him as a friend."

"Thank you for being his friend, Roger. You and Maureen mean more to us than you know." This Louisa meant sincerely. After Roger's operation a few years back, he and Martin found a comfortable friendship. Some of the few times Martin chuckled were when he and Roger were trading sarcastic remarks.

"Thanks, Louisa. Well, I'll let you get back. Bye now."

"Bye."

Louisa locked the back door, then walked to the couch in the sitting room. She sat comfortably in a corner, feet drawn up beside her, and dialed Martin. His phone went to voicemail.

She frowned as she thought, 'Where is he?'

- oo0oo –

Roger sat next to Maureen on their couch, and the twins shifted from climbing on her to climbing on him. He smiled as he assisted them in their awkward clambering. They were such a joy to Maureen and him.

"You made it sound like it wasn't anything," said Maureen, with a little disappointment in her tone.

"I know. I just felt it best to get her thinking about it first, instead of worrying her, possibly unnecessarily."

They had both noticed Martin ever so slightly unkempt. His tie was loosened, and he kept wiping his brow with his handkerchief. He had even removed his jacket and picked up the twins, in turn, allowing them to touch his ears without complaint, nor wincing very noticeably.

"Maybe you should go 'round and see him again tomorrow, maybe try and get him to have lunch with you," suggested Maureen.

"Okay, love," Roger soothed. "I will."

He pushed her hair over her ear and kissed her temple. Their foreheads touched and they smiled at each other.

Roger thought a little more about how Martin had acted, but soon gave his full attention to the twins' bedtime routine.

- oo0oo –

**Fragile - End of Chapter 2**


	3. Chapter 3

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**Disclaimer:** Doc Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 3**

Louisa was standing on the front porch looking across at her school glowing in the setting sun. Her hair moved in the light breeze, a break from the windier day earlier. She wondered about Martin and this view, knowing she, herself, had looked back this way from her former cottage many times.

It had been very nice these past few months to be looking the same way together with Martin. He smiled more with her, at home, at least, and he seemed very content with James, although more so when James was content.

She felt her mobile buzz and answered it.

"Hello, Martin," Louisa said with relief, once she saw the caller ID.

"Sorry to bother you," said an unfamiliar voice, and Louisa immediately grew tense. Who was calling her on Martin's phone? She moved back into the house, out of the wind, to hear better.

"I'm just calling to say I have Doctor Ellingham's mobile," said the voice, and now Louisa recognised it was Stewart James, the ranger. She instinctively knew this would be another odd phone call.

"Hello, Stewart," she said, as pleasantly as possible. "Why do you have Martin's phone?"

"He left it here today," Stewart answered. "He's never done that before. He didn't leave it Tuesday."

Stewart had a unique way of holding a conversation with himself, explaining and going over everything "pertinent," and yet not really engaging the person to whom he was providing information.

Louisa had her own way of conversing with Stewart. She'd had a student who was slightly similar and she'd devised a way to keep him on track. It involved asking questions, but being matter-of-fact about it, as in speaking as if the questions were part of a normal conversation.

"What happened Tuesday?" she asked, conversationally.

"Cricket lessons," said Stewart, not realising in the least that his answer would be in any way odd.

"Oh," said Louisa. "But he remembered his mobile then. And the time before that?"

"Friday. Carpentry."

Louisa was mystified, and Stewart seemed to have no idea.

"Okay," she said. She really wanted to keep asking questions, but she held her tongue.

"He always remembers his phone," said Stewart. "Shooting, darts. He always remembers. I could… no, I can't bring it to him. Please tell him I'll leave it on the table out front."

Louisa's mind was spinning, but she carefully said, "Okay, Stewart. Thank you so much for letting us know right away where it was."

"No problem," said Stewart, cheerfully. "Glad to be of service."

Even if she hadn't had the call earlier from Roger, Louisa would have been concerned. She still hadn't heard from Martin, and couldn't help but allow a tiny bit of worry to creep over her. The shadows outside had grown and deepened as the evening wore on.

True, Stewart was not to be trusted about most things he talked about, his obsession with poachers being one that Martin had shared with her in particular. But what a story he'd told, albeit in his usual distracted way.

Martin taking lessons from Stewart in carpentry, cricket… darts? Had he actually said, 'Shooting?' That HAD to be a delusion.

Martin had never expressed the slightest bit of interest in any of those activities. And to be learning about them from Stewart was mind-boggling.

It had to be that they'd ended up "discussing" the activities. There couldn't have been actual lessons involved. There just couldn't.

Louisa thought about the many times she'd awoken recently because of Martin's disturbed sleep. Sometimes he quietly mumbled, and sometimes he actually said, "No!" in a firm way. She definitely woke up those times.

Usually she lay still, keeping her eyes closed, thinking... hoping they would both return to restful sleep.

However, when Martin didn't seem to return to peaceful slumber, she sometimes tried to soothe him by smoothing his hair or gently rubbing his chest.

If he awoke, she couldn't resist asking if he was okay, but she didn't think he'd been straight with her these past few weeks. His physical discomfort seemed to come from his mental unease, and that was something he unequivocally would not share with her. At least, that's how it seemed.

She didn't want to fight with him about it, but her softly, softly approach didn't seem to be helping either of them. She was still in the dark, and Martin remained troubled. And now, missing.

- oo0oo –

**Fragile - End of Chapter 3**


	4. Chapter 4

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**Disclaimer:** Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 4**

Martin loosened his tie and undid his top button. He rarely felt the claustrophobia that bit of pressure brought on, but there'd been an incident.

After helping an elderly patient down in a root cellar, a few weeks back, he had started having nightmares of being locked in the cupboard under the stairs when he was a child. It was close, dark, and the door had locked and trapped him and the patient down there for over a quarter of an hour before Martin was able to shoulder it open.

Young Martin had spent many angry hours in the cupboard, and although he had grown up, he had relapsed in a dramatic way once, when haemophobia redirected his career.

He thought he was long past those memories, but after every bad dream, he woke up sweating, panting, trying to clear the visuals, or lack of visuals, as it happened, of those miserable hours.

When his mother had first started locking him under the stairs, he yelled and kicked at the door, which, of course, only made her angrier. She had icily told him that for every minute of sound he made while in the cupboard, he would remain locked in for five extra minutes.

Martin had forgotten his mother's cruelty, always remembering the incidents as being due to his own willfulness, but one of the nightmares had clearly reminded him of the look on her face, as well as her voice. She had even said to his father a couple of times when his father had returned from work, that Martin had "played in the cupboard under the stairs today" and "how precious" it was. She was obviously covering her tracks.

Thinking of her, he inevitably started thinking about parenting, in general, and being a father, in particular. He had not had a good role model growing up, and really didn't think reading tips and tricks would improve his chances. Every time he couldn't console James, or Louisa "corrected" something he was doing with their baby, Martin lost a little more faith in himself.

The nightmares made him more susceptible to residual feelings of haemophobia. He would find himself thinking back to that moment, years ago, when he experienced his first real attack. He had since come to learn it wasn't just the blood and cauterized flesh, and them making him unable to perform an operation, it was the fear that he would never know the closeness that woman had with her family.

Especially if he were to make an error as a physician. His career would be ruined, and he would lose Louisa's respect. James would grow up embarrassed by his father.

After Joan died, he'd lost the one person who'd always backed him, absolutely. She may have teased him some, and tried to teach him still as an adult, but he knew it all came from a place of love.

When Louisa would not include him in her life during her pregnancy, having so much respect for her led him to believe that she knew best. She had decided to keep the baby, but knew he would not be capable of being a good father. During those months, he had resigned himself to that viewpoint.

Add to that the unlucky chance meeting with Edith a couple of Saturdays back. He had been caught off guard by her at Truro Hospital. She wanted to vent about a patient who wasn't taking her advice about an unwanted pregnancy. His mind was drifting away from the one-sided conversation, when she said, "After all, it was no big deal when I had my abortion before leaving for Canada."

His heart had fairly stopped, then started pounding as he realised what she was saying. She had ended a pregnancy at the same time she had refused his proposal of marriage and left for Canada. She had aborted their baby. And she hadn't been considerate enough to tell him, let alone discuss it with him. He couldn't just leave it at speculation. He had asked her point blank if she had aborted his child. She'd had a look of trying to backtrack, but had then said yes and changed the subject. Martin had abruptly turned and walked out of the hospital.

How was he supposed to think? If the woman he once thought he loved, and the woman he now loved so much it scared him at times didn't have confidence in his parenting skills, then no wonder he was relapsing back to his childhood. A time when the people who cared about him most, according to anything he read, saw on television, or was told in school, saw fit to discipline him the way they did, and yet somehow he never felt comfortable afterwards.

It was why he had lately been asking for help from Stewart James, who had a good father growing up, and also going to see Roger Fenn, who seemed to always enjoy spending time with his twins.

Maybe just watching Roger would help, although he had to admit that after nearly every encounter with Roger, since his operation a few years back, Martin's mood had improved. Someone had once referred to Roger as "endlessly pleasant," and, for once, Martin had to agree.

Martin leaned against his car and thought about the words and terms he'd learned that day: planter foot, eyes on the ball, header, non-dominant foot, strikers, offsides, yellow and red cards. He pictured football games he'd observed over the years and gave names to the moves: dribbling, feint, corner kicks and free kicks. He pictured James Henry as a tall and thin boy, his blond hair flopping as he ran after the football, and then kicked it into the goal.

Martin pulled out a paper with a posttraumatic stress disorder checklist. He had attended a seminar once and knew what he was experiencing closely resembled PTSD symptoms. This was the third time he was referring to the list. For three of the questions, "Repeated, disturbing dreams of a stressful experience from the past?", "Suddenly acting or feeling as if a stressful experience were happening again (as if you were reliving it)?" and "Having physical reactions (e.g., heart pounding, trouble breathing, or sweating) when something reminded you of a stressful experience from the past?", he noticed with a deep sigh of relief that all the changes in his answers showed an abatement in his symptoms.

However, one question continued to trouble him: "Avoid thinking about or talking about a stressful experience from the past or avoid having feelings related to it?" This question is what was holding him back. He knew if he could not change his attitude towards this question, he would never feel "cured" or even completely comfortable with himself.

Years ago, during that only other time he had experienced these PTSD-like symptoms, including nightmares of the cupboard, he had resorted to alcohol to avoid thinking about it. Alcohol is never helpful, and never the answer, so it was why he felt so strongly about it nowadays.

PTSD made him think of the ranger. Anything he asked Stewart, Stewart knew. He knew practical skills, games, survival. He had learned some of these in military service, but most of it came from his childhood, from a father who was involved with his son's life.

Martin was thinking about how he couldn't picture his own father beside him doing any of the things Stewart was teaching him. Not with a bat, fishing pole, hammer, paintbrush…

Not once.

He gradually became aware that the shadows had lengthened, and he looked at his watch. He'd better give Louisa a call or she might be worried.

He reached for his mobile, but it wasn't in his breast pocket, where he faithfully returned it after every phone call. He patted all his other pockets, then walked to the driver's side and opened the door. After rummaging around for a couple of minutes, he decided the phone must have fallen from his pocket when he bent to pick up a football at Stewart's. Bugger. He was much closer to home than the ranger's. He would have to go retrieve it tomorrow.

- oo0oo –

**Fragile - End of Chapter 4**

**Credits:**

- I found the PTSD checklist widely available, including here: www dot ptsd dot va dot gov

- Doc Martin FanFiction writer mmDerdekea once referred to Roger as "endlessly pleasant." I've always liked that.


	5. Chapter 5

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**Disclaimer:** Doc Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 5 **

Stewart thought about Martin. The doctor had been out to his place quite often, lately. He had assumed, until recently, that Dr Ellingham was checking up on him, for the National Trust. After all, the Trust owned the place.

At first, he was nervous that the doctor came because he was showing signs of relapse, but then he noticed something. He couldn't exactly say it was peculiar, because he'd heard lots of people over the years use that word in reference to himself. But Dr Ellingham was acting… different.

The normally brusque doctor seemed patient as he asked about Stewart's childhood. He wanted to know when Stewart had learned different sports and practical skills. He allowed Stewart to methodically show him the rigmarole of fishing, for instance, even removing his suit jacket to cast a line unimpeded.

Stewart found he enjoyed these times with the doctor. He got to be knowledgeable and useful, and, well, better at some activities than the great healer. But he did notice certain details. After all, they were working closely together.

When the doctor arrived, he was often wiping his brow with a handkerchief, even when it wasn't particularly warm. The doctor had invariably already unbuttoned the top button of the day's crisp shirt. Stewart was not such a bad judge of character, and was, as Martin once told him, very perceptive. Stewart could see that the doctor was uncomfortable about something, but something mental, not physical.

The therapist that the doctor had found for Stewart to start seeing on a weekly basis, and who had subsequently convinced Stewart to continue counseling in a group setting, had recently introduced Stewart to a new Iraq combat veteran. The younger man was Mike, a good-looking and personable handyman, and yet, like Stewart, another person unable to completely be at ease in society. Mike still suffered from a bout of posttraumatic stress disorder, to which Stewart could well relate.

Mike had told the group about an incident where he'd survived a roadside bomb blast, but a fellow soldier had not. Stewart knew his own PTSD was not fresh, yet could still be triggered by sounds and smells. He hoped the group meetings could help Mike sooner in life than they had been able to help him.

The doctor had some things in common with Mike and himself, such as sweat on the brow, and a way of completely mentally leaving the present situation while seeming "all together" to those around him.

After one group meeting, Stewart had invited Mike to go fishing. Mike had apologised a couple of times for "spacing out", as he called it. Stewart hadn't even been sure when the moments happened, but saw the sweat beads belying Mike's friendly smile. Of course, he didn't share his observations with Mike. He was just doing what others had done before him, providing safe and private situations where a person who had suffered trauma could continue healing.

Now Stewart was wondering what could be bothering the doctor enough to give him some PTSD-like symptoms. He had his suspicions after their random conversations during various meetings revealed several issues. Dr Ellingham had nightmares on more than one occasion. His strong feelings against alcohol may have stemmed from a bad experience of personal overindulgence at one point. These, along with his usual impatience with people and anger with his GP situation, all pointed to those symptoms.

Stewart knew the men in the group had each found a way to finally speak of their traumas. He also knew Dr Ellingham rigidly avoided sharing anything personal. Maybe he was holding something in.

If there was one thing he was certain of, Stewart knew he hadn't wanted to speak of his own bad memories from his time in Bosnia. He preferred, when conversations called for it, to say he "saw" or "did" some "heavy stuff." But once he'd shared with his therapist a couple of times, then started attending the group and was able to participate even more times, he found it much easier. He was very specific with his therapist, and occasionally specific with the group, but, either way, that fantasy concept of a weight being lifted off actually felt true.

Maybe he could figure out how to help Dr Ellingham. After all, he owed it to him. The doctor having found him a therapist had been the best thing that had happened to Stewart in years.

- oo0oo –

**Fragile - End of Chapter 5 **


	6. Chapter 6

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**Disclaimer:** Doc Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 6 **

When Martin got home, the house was silent. He'd expected Louisa to be watching television, or sitting at the kitchen table doing administrative work for the school. He went to the sink and filled a glass with water, the sound filling the room. When he turned off the faucet he could hear Louisa's footsteps hitting the main level.

He turned towards her and felt peaceful as she approached. She couldn't solve all his problems, and he certainly didn't expect her to, but having her in his life was the best thing that had ever happened to him. His face softened into an almost smile, but then he saw hers wrinkle into a frown.

"Hello," she said, stopping at the kitchen doorway, and leaning against the frame with her arms crossed.

"Yes," he said. Her frown deepened, and he remembered his usual way of greeting people was not acceptable to her. "Hello," he said.

"Where have you been?"

Her question did not strike him as conversational.

"Bodmin Moor. An emergency call."

Her frown continued and he wondered how many times he'd said that to her lately.

"Spend any time elsewhere?"

Her question was very leading, the way you might lead a patient who wasn't telling you the whole story. He couldn't decide if she knew where he'd been, but he realised she may have at least tried to call him. He decided to tell her as much as he could bring himself to.

"I stopped by to see Stewart. Thought I'd check up on him. I may have dropped my mobile there."

"You did. Stewart phoned."

He wondered why she hadn't just said so in the beginning.

"Martin, I have been asking you for weeks what is wrong, but it seems that as nice as I can be, the further withdrawn you get. Should I be cold and nasty?"

He looked at her with horror.

"Your friends are concerned about you, Martin."

"What friends?" he asked, with doubt.

"Your friends? The guys you laugh with and tell things to?"

"I don't tell anyone anything," stated Martin.

"Precisely!" Louisa nearly shouted. She lowered her voice. "Not even me. And I am your wife, Martin, the one who is supposed to love you most in this world. And you know what?"

Martin nearly said the question, but she cut him off.

"I do. But you make it VERY difficult."

Martin was really not prepared for where this conversation seemed to be going. He tried to think of an escape. He looked at his watch. Not quite late enough to announce bedtime. Barely early enough to...

The phone at reception started ringing. Martin strode quickly through the sitting room, Louisa following slower.

"Yes? I misplaced my phone… What's the address? …Is that before or after the petrol station? …Just a bit over ten minutes… Yes, that's correct… If you can't stop the bleeding in five minutes, call for the ambulance… Yes, I'm on my way."

She watched him pat his pockets, checking for his keys, then move towards the door. "Martin?" she asked gently.

"Yes?" he said, as he turned his head, hand on the doorknob.

She walked over to him, saying, "Take my phone?" she asked, handing it to him.

"Yes," he said, gratefully.

"Be safe." She put her arms around him and hugged him, accepting his one-armed hug in return. Then he kissed the top of her head and left.

- oo0oo –

Late the next morning, Martin finally found a bit of time to think about something besides work. He had gotten home very late from the emergency, which had turned out to be a deep wound from a broken glass. It was an artery in a finger, and the patient's wife was afraid of pressing too hard and too long on the wound. Unfortunately, that's what the wound needed.

As seemed to be the case these past couple of years, although not something he could count on for sure, Martin handled the bloody scene professionally. The ambulance had taken longer than desirable, due to a low fog drifting up from the harbour, but Martin had stopped the bleeding, applied a bit of glue and surgical tape, then monitored the skin coloration until the ambulance arrived.

He was just thinking about lunch and his mobile, still out at Stewart's, when there came a knock on his consulting room door.

"Yes!" he called, and the door opened. "Roger," stated Martin.

"Hello, Martin," said Roger, cheerfully. Roger knew this particular mission might be a lost cause, but he had at least called ahead and asked Morwenna when the doctor's Saturday morning hours ended. "I brought some chicken salad in wholegrain wraps and was hoping you could join me for lunch."

"I, um... AM... going out to Stewart's to pick up my mobile. I, uh, dropped it there yesterday." Martin was uncomfortable sharing this personal tidbit.

"Even better," said Roger, smiling. "Now your lunch hour can be efficient." He held up the bag with the sandwiches inside.

Martin tried to think how to get out of this one. Healthy sandwiches, Roger, a car trip over Bodmin Moor. Louisa had recently suggested he was "shy and introverted." She'd also mentioned his "friends," although not by name. He felt certain she would count Roger as one of his friends, if only for the recent time they'd spent with Roger and Maureen. He sighed.

"Yes. Thank you," he said, and indicated towards the door.

- oo0oo –

The trip started off well enough. The wrap-style sandwiches were consumed easily and without mess, and Martin was glad they prevented conversation. He spent the time driving and thinking. Inevitably, however, Roger spoke.

"You were asking about my boyhood and my father yesterday. Got me thinking... I didn't end up with a proud daughter my first try at this parenting gig, although she has visited us twice to meet her half-brothers. My Dad and I got on, because it's easier for a Dad with a son, isn't it? Not as much mystery as with the female of the species."

Martin only listened, not prepared to join in, if he could help it.

"There's so much I want to share with my sons. I want to do all that stuff, like sport, but I know the schools will provide for that. Better for them, anyway, to have pint-sized playmates when it comes to that, eh? They'll just find me slow and awkward."

Roger trailed off and Martin wondered if he was worried about his cancer going into remission. He was about to share some statistics, but Roger continued.

"It's more teaching them about life, really. They need to see their parents happy, hopefully loving, learning, and such. That's what'll give them roots, something good to compare everything else to. I'm really grateful for the second chance."

Silence again as they drove along. Martin had a brief thought about the abortion he'd learned of and how James was a second chance, but he quashed that well and good. James was his first baby, his son, whose mother he was devoted to. This wasn't another chance to get it right. This could be his ONLY chance.

"What happens if a father doesn't get it right," he found himself saying, not quite a question. "Can his son be a good father, if he didn't have one?"

'Wow,' thought Roger. 'I did it, got him talking. Don't blow it now.'

"A man doesn't only have one role model in life," Roger answered. "And among them could be women. Hopefully the man finds inspiration from many sources. And, in turn, he won't be the only role model in his children's lives. It takes a village, and all."

They were nearing the last turn towards Stewart's.

"What do you want to share with your son?" he asked Martin. He knew his own answer, but patiently waited.

Martin wanted his son to see where he went to school. He pictured his portrait hung there, and the library that had been inspiring. He knew a copy of his thesis was still available in the stacks, while many had been removed to offsite storage. The medical facilities were revered, and he kept his RCS cufflinks among his collection.

Then he started thinking about himself as a boy here in Cornwall, working with his uncle Phil on projects around the farm. He had to admit that he felt a certain warmth thinking about those times. Maybe that's what he most wanted to share with James.

"I think I would show him what I liked doing as a boy. I learned how to fix clocks then, and I knew all about butterflies at one point." He felt less embarrassed than he thought he would.

"I will share my love of music, and also teaching," said Roger, with a smile.

They pulled up outside Stewart's gate and Martin turned off the engine.

- oo0oo –

**Fragile - End of Chapter 6 **


	7. Chapter 7

- oo0oo –

**Disclaimer:** Doc Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 7**

"Have you talked with Louisa about it?" asked Roger. Martin hadn't jumped out of the car after turning it off, so Roger continued their conversation.

"About what?" wondered Martin.

"About your father. About being a father. About what you want to share with your son."

Martin hadn't thought about doing so, but he tried to now. What would she think? He certainly didn't want to worry her by appearing uncertain. Then there was the whole nightmare issue, and how it had brought back the haemophobia. All of that?

"No," he said, though more to stop all his thoughts.

"I think you should," said Roger. He opened the car door to ease the tension.

Martin still sat.

"I've never been out here," said Roger. He looked at the high fence, topped with barbed wire, and the huge gate. "Pretty secure."

Martin didn't want to comment about Stewart as a patient. His mind naturally sought a basis for replying more generally.

"The National Trust owns the place. Their rules, I assume."

He glanced towards the table by the front door, where Louisa said Stewart had left the phone. He didn't see it.

"I may have to find Stewart. The phone is not on the table."

They both exited the car, Roger welcoming the chance to stretch his legs. He watched Martin slide a latch and open the gate.

Once up close, Martin looked at the table again, then the chairs and floor. He had a fleeting thought that maybe Anthony had taken it. He snorted lightly. Louisa would be pleased that he'd thought of a joke.

He looked at Stewart's truck near his car. The ranger must be home.

There was nothing for it, but to knock.

-oo0oo-

Stewart heard a car approaching, the tires crunching over the unpaved driveway. He peeked out and saw it was Martin, but there was a passenger, as well. A couple of seconds later he identified the former schoolteacher, Roger Fenn. Well, he was still teaching, just not full time these days.

He could think of no reason for Roger to be here and for once decided not to wonder why. He was with Martin. They were probably friends.

Wait a minute. What was he thinking? Friends?

Okay. Why not? He thought of Martin as a friend, regardless of Martin's point of view. And Martin needed friends. Judging by his recent behaviour, Stewart thought he needed any help he could get, and he also knew Martin wouldn't go find it on his own.

He watched as Martin opened the gate while Roger stood to the side. He'd brought the mobile in last night, to keep it out of the damp, and was now glad for the excuse to interact with Martin.

Now, how to capture his attention? Maybe he could pretend he wasn't feeling well...

Martin knocked.

-oo0oo-

Martin stood waiting for a response. He glanced around the perimeter and didn't see anyone, so he knocked again and called, "Stewart?"

He glanced in the window. None of the windows in the cabin had curtains, and he was therefore able to see Stewart's shadow. He called out again.

"Stewart? I'm here for my mobile."

The shadow moved slightly.

"I know you're in there, Stewart. I can see your shadow."

Stewart knew he was caught. But it went along with his plan.

"Are they still shooting?" he called.

Martin spun around looking towards Roger and then all around the property that he could see. He scanned the tree line.

"What do you mean, Stewart? When?"

"I heard them just before you arrived," Stewart said, sounding shaky. He walked to the door and put his hand on the doorknob. He and Martin looked at each other through the glass, Martin trying to visually assess Stewart's condition. He remembered a bit of conversation with the ranger…

- oo0oo –

Stewart had admitted he'd been a bit 'over the top.'

_"…the slightest thing can set me off,"_ he'd said._ "To be honest - sounds, smells. I mean, I just go to pieces. You know, it's like a smell can put me right back there. I mean, you can't imagine."_

Martin had answered, _"No, I can, actually."_

- oo0oo –

"I haven't heard them since I've been here," Martin said, reassuringly.

Stewart still seemed to hesitate, but then unlocked the door. He stood back as much as possible, but looked around Martin as he went to close the door. He remembered Martin wasn't alone.

"We shouldn't leave Roger out there," he said.

Martin wasn't sure what would soon be transpiring here, but he allowed Stewart to lead.

"That's up to you," he said, and watched Stewart's reaction. The ranger seemed calm enough.

"Yeah, sure. Maybe you could both stay a bit? I find it helps to talk about it. I could make some coffee…"

- oo0oo –

**Fragile - End of Chapter 7**

**Credits:**

Martin is remembering a conversation with Stewart from Episode 1-04 "The Portwenn Effect" written by Dominic Minghella.


	8. Chapter 8

- oo0oo –

**Disclaimer: **Doc Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 8**

Stewart had gone through the routine of coffee-making, hopefully convincing the others he was "calming" himself. Then he had begun telling them how the East Cornwall Hunt was in the vicinity on Wednesdays and Saturdays. The organization had to keep off the National Trust's lands, but they drew close enough for him to be nervous. He tried to maintain a schedule that had him doing property work on those days, or that took him out of the area completely.

He talked about the time in Bosnia when he was shot in the shoulder by friendly fire. The pain was a distant memory, but the whole situation remained surreal. Unfortunately, he hadn't completely put it behind him.

"Even now, I flinch when I hear gunshots, or anything that sounds like them. Maybe it's worse for me, because it wasn't enemy fire. I mean, deep inside, I know that it could happen again, out here in the woods, poachers, careless hunters…"

Stewart trailed off, but watched Martin, who was staring out one of the back windows. He glanced over at Roger and encouragingly tilted his head a couple of times towards Martin. Roger's eyebrows went up in surprise, but thankfully he caught on quickly.

Roger thought for a few seconds, then started talking about the despair he felt when he needed throat surgery. He talked about how playing with his band kept him away from his daughter as she grew up and how she resented his lack of involvement. He and Maureen hadn't yet found each other, so he was alone when Martin diagnosed him.

He still didn't have 100% faith that he'd see all the milestones of his sons' lives. He said follow-up care bothered him most as the check-ups loomed.

"I don't sleep well the couple of weeks before, and I get cranky and quiet. Even my clothes start annoying me, restricting me, pressing on my throat. Everything feels closer around me..."

"Like being locked in a small, dark space. You never want to be in total darkness ever again, nor in a confined space." Martin still faced the wooded view, holding his hands behind his back.

Roger and Stewart exchanged a look of wonder. They stayed silent, however, in hopes that Martin would continue speaking on his own.

"My mother used to lock me in a cupboard under the stairs all the time, when I was a child. I used to say it didn't affect me…" Martin paused, then took a deep breath.

"I had a patient a few weeks back who I had to tend to in his root cellar. The door got jammed and I had to bash my way out, but we were down there nearly 20 minutes. After that, I started having nightmares about the cupboard again. I hadn't had them since the time my haemophobia first presented.

"Now the nightmares remind me of the patient I couldn't help. I see her family around her, comforting her, there for her. At the time, I thought I'd never have that... Family.

"It all gets muddled forward and backward. I think, 'Well, I have a family, so I'll be fine,' but then I think, 'But what if I misdiagnose a patient? It would ruin me, embarrass them.' I mix the two - misdiagnosing patients with bad parenting.

"I don't have good family memories growing up. My aunt told me my father believed that a crying child was best left alone in a room. I remember when I misbehaved, my father would slap me with his belt, or a table tennis bat, or both, sometimes.

"He especially had no patience for any of my excitements of discovery, usually yelling at me for not knocking, or something equally meaningless at the time.

"My mother blamed me for her unhappy marriage. I spent very little time with her growing up, perhaps just as well."

Martin knew the other men were listening, and he realised he was not bothered at having revealed these things to them. This was, as they say, a "safe place," and these men, as Louisa suggested, were his friends.

Friends. An alien concept to Martin Ellingham, but something he'd been thinking of the past couple of days. He'd gone to Roger and Stewart... why? Because he trusted their knowledge, and their discretion. And then Louisa had said his friends were worried about him. Who else could she have meant but these two men? The intelligent, damaged Stewart, and the talented, formerly bitter, but with a new lease on life Roger?

Even Peter Cronk, back when he stayed over Martin's while his mother was in the hospital, had seen where Martin stood. "I'm like you," he'd told Martin. "Don't have any friends."

Maybe this was a turning point for him. He mentally gave that one, irritating PTSD checklist question a different rating. It turns out he could, and finally had been able to, talk about his "stressful experience from the past."

- oo0oo –

**Fragile - End of Chapter 8**


	9. Chapter 9

- oo0oo –

**Disclaimer: **Doc Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 9**

"Hi, Maureen."

"Hi, Louisa. Have you seen Roger? I dropped him off in the village. He was planning on trying to have lunch with Martin, but he hasn't gotten back, yet."

"I was at a playgroup with James, but Martin left a note here. It says he and Roger were driving out to Stewart's. Martin's phone got left there by accident."

"Okay. Well, if you hear from them, please let me know."

- oo0oo –

"Hi, Roger."

"Hi, Louisa. Maureen said she'd called you. Martin and I got detained a bit at Stewart's, but he's dropped me off and should be on his way home now."

"Okay. Thanks."

- oo0oo –

"Hi, Stewart."

"Yeah, Dr Ellingham… Martin is on his way home now. He, um… I held him up a bit."

"Okay, thanks for letting me know."

Why had Martin gone back to Stewart after dropping off Roger? Probably a doctor-patient thing she'd never find out about.

She heard the slam of a car door.

- oo0oo –

Louisa combed her fingers through Martin's hair. When he had returned, he'd made his way to Louisa and held her. Now they were side by side on the couch, her other hand between both of his.

"You seem happier, after hanging out with Roger and Stewart," said Louisa.

"Hanging out," he deadpanned.

"Yes, Martin," she deadpanned back. She looked at him a few seconds. "Did you have a good visit?"

Martin thought about the afternoon…

- oo0oo –

Stewart, then Roger, and then he ended up talking about past pain. It had felt a bit gloomy in the cabin for a while, until Roger, as usual finding a positive spin, got them to share their future hopes.

Roger and Maureen had been discussing marriage, and he was hoping his daughter's visits would mean she would be part of the wedding. It wouldn't be a big affair, just a few friends, but having her there would mean the world to him.

Stewart, it seemed, had met someone. She was a Truro police constable, and a former combat veteran with her own bad memories of Kosovo. Stewart thought she had a great sense of humour, and he smiled broadly when he spoke of her.

Martin told them he'd been asked to be part of a remote diagnostic team. Whenever a physician wanted a consult about a persistent or mysterious illness, a conference call would be arranged. The group would conduct a differential diagnostic session to try and help.

After he'd dropped Roger home, Martin had driven back out to Stewart's. He'd sat in his car, thinking, until Stewart came out to check on him.

"All right, Dr Ellingham?"

Martin climbed out of the car, his top button opened, tie loosened. Stewart wondered what had brought this on.

"I just needed some time before going home." Now he did feel a little embarrassed, but he was determined to take this step.

"Anything I can do?" asked Stewart.

"I, um…" Yes. This was hard for him to do. "That therapist you were seeing, and that group you attend…"

Martin asked Stewart his opinion on both, and they spent a short while discussing them. The point Stewart wanted to make was that he wouldn't have met the woman he was apparently falling for if he hadn't had this help. Martin had a suspicion now that the afternoon had been somewhat orchestrated by Stewart, but he wasn't angry. Instead, he reached out to this man he was now thinking of as a friend.

"Stewart?"

"Yes?"

"Call me 'Martin.'"

- oo0oo –

"Yes," he said, simply. He leaned back into the couch and exhaled. "Louisa?"

Louisa put her hand on theirs. "Yes?"

"Did you ever consider getting an abortion?"

"Never," she said, emphatically. "Not once, Martin. I was scared thinking I'd be raising a child alone…"

"But I would have helped you!"

"Yet you never called, never visited..."

"Because you snuck away! You PLANNED on leaving Portwenn, then WENT, all without telling me!"

They had moved apart, and now both of them took a deep breath.

Martin had to know, so he forced himself to ask, "Did you know you were pregnant when you left?"

"No," she told him, sincerely. "I found out after I'd signed a lease, and a contract with the school."

She drew closer and took his hand again.

"I'm sorry I left the way I did, Martin. But I never once thought of not having our baby. I knew our baby would be wonderful, having your genes, the way you take care of people, of things. Your gentleness. And I did hope you'd want to be a father."

"I do. Only I... only... what if I'm not good at it?"

"At what?"

"At being a father. I know I didn't invite you to meet them when they were here, but I don't have very good parents. My mother told me I ruined her marriage by being born. My father belittles my work as a GP. I would be fine never seeing them again."

"Oh, Martin, don't even dwell on that. I'm sorry you didn't have loving parents, because I think you deserve to be loved. Even if only for the way you love me and James." She kissed his hand. "As for being a GP, I know you still compare it to being a surgeon. But even Chris Parsons loves telling everyone how good a diagnostician you are. Where else, but as a GP, would you even get the chance to see such a variety of ailments? I am so proud to be your wife, Martin. No one can put you down with any legitimacy. You are the most excellent caregiver any of them has ever had the luck to have known."

Martin was pretty astonished by all that, and he clasped her hand tighter.

"You mean, you don't worry about me being James Henry's father?"

"Never. I've seen how you've gotten used to caring for him, and how he quiets for you, and smiles at you. You are becoming a wonderful father." She looked at him, trying to think, after all this discussion, just what was bothering him. "What worries you?"

"I, um…" Martin actually looked embarrassed. "I never played sports."

"So? You learned to dance. Besides, some people play, some people coach, and some just watch."

"My father never taught me fishing, or woodworking, or..."

"Who cares? Maybe James won't be interested in those activities, anyway. You can show him what you DO know, like fixing clocks. And don't worry if he's not interested in that, or practicing medicine. All he needs to learn is that you have learned things, you are good at some things, and he can choose and learn things, as well. He just needs your love and support." She paused a moment. "As do I. And I plan to always love and support you, as well."

Martin put his arm out and hugged her to him as she moved next to him.

"I'm sorry I've been avoiding talking with you," he murmured.

"Me, too," she said. "Why is that?"

"My, um, haemophobia is back."

"Oh, Martin," she said, hugging him. "Couldn't you have said?"

"I didn't want to believe it."

"Is it what's been giving you bad dreams?"

"Probably."

"Was there something specific that brought it on, do you think?"

"Do you remember when that nasty boy was shut in Aunt Joan's chicken coop?"

"Yes. I remember, because you said you were locked in a cupboard under the stairs all the time when you were a child. That always bothered me, Martin."

"Right." He was a bit surprised that she had keyed in on that exact point. "I've always said it didn't affect me, but I've come to learn that it has." He gently caressed her hand with his free one. "I had a patient a few weeks ago. I had to go down into his root cellar to treat him, and we were stuck in there a short while. I had to bash the door open. The, um, bad dreams started after that."

"What could help them go away?" She was thinking about medication, or counseling, but she let him talk.

"Well, time, mostly. But also talking about it. The nightlight..."

Ah, she thought. The nightlight had only been added to the hallway in the past month.

"You know, you can talk to me anytime," she said.

"Thank you," he said, but right now all he wanted to do was hold her.

- oo0oo –

**Fragile - End of Chapter 9**


	10. Chapter 10

- oo0oo –

**Disclaimer: **Doc Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 10**

Martin and Ruth were having lunch a few days later. Martin was a bit distracted, as Ruth had become a bit preachy.

"Tell me you have never suggested to a patient that he seek therapy."

Between these two, the question was, of course, rhetorical. They both worked in medicine and knew that psychology and psychiatry were, at least in his opinion, necessary evils. He didn't answer her. Instead, he remembered back to when he first met Stewart...

-oo0oo-

The ranger was trying to convince Martin that he was okay now, that with medication he was in control.

_"Stewart, if I could find the right therapist, do you think you'd go and see them?"_

_"Sure. Yeah. Yeah, I would."_

_"All right,"_ said Martin, and they'd had another one of Stewart's great cups of coffee.

-oo0oo-

Turned out, he HAD found the right therapist. Stewart seemed a lot less guarded these days, there had not been any village incidents with him since the bird feeders, and there was the police constable he was enamoured with.

Martin thought of Dr Marcel Milligan, whose visualisation CDs had all but eradicated his haemophobia at one time. Irritatingly, Edith had tricked him into making the appointment with Milligan before she told Martin, 'His paper on therapeutic approaches to social retardation is the best I've seen.' It was probably why he felt so negatively towards the man.

He thought about the two cases of Obsessive–compulsive disorder he'd seen since relocating to Portwenn, a young man in the Army, and the young teacher, Tricia Soames, at Louisa's school. He had specifically asked each of them, "Would you like to feel more in control of your actions?"

"So, what is the difference between you and a patient?" Ruth interrupted his thoughts. "What is your philosophy, 'Physician, heal thyself?'"

Her sarcasm knew no bounds, but he felt he should answer this time.

"Of course not, it's just…"

"Yes?"

"I don't want to appear weak. I don't want to doubt myself. It affects my diagnoses. I second-guess myself, and any error I make could only be disastrous, in so many ways."

"What ways?" asked Ruth, keeping the conversation going.

"The patient's welfare, my career…" He paused, but Ruth finished his thoughts.

"Your marriage, how James would see you... You would lose control."

He thought about Milligan...

-oo0oo-

Martin had initially been very unhappy with the doctor's young age. He wasn't engaging with the doctor right from the start.

Then Milligan surprised him and calmly said, _"Isn't being a surgeon all about being in control? The precision. Wouldn't the worst thing for a surgeon be to lose that control? I wonder if it's not the fear of losing control that's bringing about this crisis."_

-oo0oo-

That was over a year ago, and here he was right back there again.

"Look," said Ruth. She actually could tell he was mildly dissociating, but she had a few things she needed to say to him. She had to stay on track, or he'd be off, back on duty. "I know I told you not to get married for the sake of the baby, and I know you didn't. But you are still not entirely content with your lot.

"You know I blame your parents. You should have been able to grow up, fall in love, have nearly everything you dreamed of, and yet be happy with what you do have, but something is stopping you."

Martin drifted again to the time he suggested to Miss Soames that she needed help and should have already known that...

-oo0oo-

After spotting the young teacher spinning around at her doorway, but hesitating to enter, he'd asked her, _"You never wondered what's wrong with you? Never looked up your symptoms on the Internet or read about OCD?"_

_"There's nothing wrong with me,"_ she had replied, emphatically.

However, later, she came around to see him in the surgery. She had likely read about her symptoms, because she told him about a few.

With a determined look, she'd said, _"So, how can you help me?"_

-oo0oo-

God knew he had looked up his own symptoms, hence the PTSD checklist. He'd also started researching Cognitive Processing Therapy, and Prolonged Exposure Therapy.

He remembered suggesting the former to PC Penhale when he first came to the village.

-oo0oo-

Martin had only just learned that the village's new police constable had agoraphobia and narcolepsy.

He told Joan, _"The man's a complete cupcake… I'm going to have to speak to the district chief superintendent and have him replaced."_

_"What, you're going to grass him up?"_

_"I'm not grassing him up. The man's a public servant, and he's unfit for purpose."_

In her usual wise way, Joan had twisted what he said and got him thinking.

_"Yes, yes, well, you're probably right. I just wonder whether it wouldn't be kinder to treat him rather than simply report him. He has a phobia, as do many people, Marty. But some of them carry on working. No one seems to mind."_

With a lesson learned, Martin had met again with the policeman.

_"The question I have to ask is, can you carry on doing your job whilst undergoing treatment?"_

_"Absolutely."_

_"And you're aware of the effects of cognitive-behaviour therapy?"_

_"I don't know what it is."_

_"Right, but you're still sure that you could carry out your duties whilst in the thick of it."_

_"Yes."_

The constable had been very earnest about wanting to be cured, and not losing his job.

-oo0oo-

Penhale seemed a different person from those early days. Nearly symptom-free.

Ruth again tried to keep Martin in the present. "You worked with a psychiatrist before, didn't you?"

"He was a boy."

"Oh, so anyone younger than you couldn't possibly know more than you about something."

He looked at her, and sighed, annoyed.

"What was the outcome of all that?" she asked. "Were you happy with the results?"

"I felt, for a while, that my sensitivity had abated."

"What methods were utilised?"

"Visualisation CDs."

"That's all?"

"I didn't really work with him. Where is all this coming from, anyway?" Martin was finally starting to pay attention to the present and realised that his aunt had not backed off this topic since their food was served.

'Good,' thought Ruth. 'Now, he's listening.' She began talking about her real reason for today's lunch.

"Louisa and I were up at the tea room on Sunday. It was nice enough to sit outside, so lots of people walked past us. As you might expect, everyone wanted to say hello to the village's head teacher."

Martin nodded. This happened all the time.

"I noticed a common theme from many of the villagers. Some simply said, 'How's the Doc?' but many said a variation of, 'Oh, it must be nice to have a break from the Doc.' Louisa, of course, defended you every time, and said you were working, or with James, or some other."

Martin was staring at her, now. He was imagining Louisa defending him. It is exactly what she would do, to try and make any situation more pleasant. She had made excuses for people, like Alison Lane when her daughter had taken appetite suppressant pills, and also for Mr. Routledge, because she wanted to rent his cottage, but more because she took pity on the lonely old man. But defending him? How often did she have to do that? He was going to ask, when Ruth bluntly came right to the point.

"Martin, I am worried that your refusal to accept that you need therapy will negatively affect your marriage. You were very young, so I don't think you knew that my brother-in-law, Phil, suffered from depression. He avoided treatment to the point where Joan drifted into an extramarital affair. I think she did it to try and feel better about herself and her chosen life. It can be isolating on a farm. And it can get old making excuses for your husband, bad-tempered or otherwise."

- oo0oo –

**Fragile - End of Chapter 10**

**Credits:**

Martin is remembering conversations with Stewart from Episode 1-04 "The Portwenn Effect" written by Dominic Minghella, with Marcel Milligan from 4-05 "The Departed" written by Jack Lothian, with Tricia Soames from Episode 2-05 "Always on My Mind" written by Richard Stoneman, and with Joan Norton and Joe Penhale from Episode 3-03 "City Slickers" written by Richard Stoneman.


	11. Chapter 11

- oo0oo –

**Disclaimer: **Doc Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 11**

James was crying in the night, and Martin got up to go to him. Louisa had been exhausted when she came to bed earlier, and she appeared to only slightly be stirring as he left their room.

Martin bent over the crib and whispered to his son.

"James? Why are you crying?"

He gently tended to the whimpering baby while continuing to quietly talk to him.

"Is it your nappy? Shall I loosen your clothing? Maybe your shirt is pressing on your neck? No? Still unhappy?"

Martin slowly lifted James to nearly vertical and lowered him to horizontal a couple of times to try and change his ear pressure. James started to quiet, so Martin brought him to his shoulder and rubbed his back. Then he got a blanket and brought it up and over James. He walked lightly with him, his cheek on James' head.

"I will never leave you to cry alone, James. Never. I will never leave you when you are hurt, or sad. My parents did that with me. I'm sorry, but because of that, they will not be your grandparents."

He thought about Joan, and how unfair life was that she did not get to meet James. She adored the unborn baby as he prepared to be born and was so excited to meet him, but it was not to be.

"I will tell you all about Joan as you grow up. And you will have your crazy Great Aunt Ruth, too. Actually, she's very wise."

He thought about Louisa's parents as he walked down the steps. They were flawed, but it seemed they loved their daughter and had given her a good start in life, for the most part. And he truly hoped she understood that he would never leave her the way they had left her.

Downstairs now, Martin got a bottle from the refrigerator and prepared to warm it. Then he rocked left and right a little, holding James so he could see the baby's face looking up at him.

"I promise to never ignore you when you are excited about something. Well, okay, a medical emergency will preclude that, but I will always try to get back with you so you can tell me all about it."

Martin got a towel for his shoulder and tested the heated milk on the inside of his wrist, then offered it to James. He knew he was talking a lot, but he also knew it was good for babies. He wondered if his parents… he ended that thought right there. Of course, they didn't. If anyone talked to him at this stage of his life, it would have been a nanny, or Joan, or Ruth.

"So, you WERE hungry. Are you going through a growth spurt?"

He eased onto the couch in the sitting room, arranging pillows to make himself comfortable, as well as James.

In this peaceful moment, Martin's mind drifted. He had been seeing a psychiatrist for a couple of weeks, and today, well, he couldn't believe what he'd remembered earlier that day…

-oo0oo-

Dr Samuel Davis, who specialised in cognitive behavioural therapy, asked Martin, "You said you stopped going to Portwenn and no one told you why. Do you know why?"

Martin remembered Joan confessing the reason her brother forbade Martin from visiting her anymore. But Davis wanted to know more.

"Did you know why at the time? Sometimes children see or hear things they don't understand and it affects them in ways they also do not understand."

Martin had only known Davis for a couple of weeks, but he'd learned to take his time with his answers.

He thought back to the last summer he'd stayed at the farm...

-oo0oo-

His father had arrived at the end, to take Martin back to school. Sometimes his father and aunt spoke pleasantly to each other, but on this occasion, their voices were raised.

"Now, where will Martin spend his summers?!" asked his father, angrily.

"God forbid he spends them with his parents, like a normal child," retorted Joan.

"You didn't have to bed that sham of a sailor. You've ruined everything!"

"You have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Does Phil know he's been cuckolded?"

"Go to hell, Christopher!" yelled Joan.

-oo0oo-

Martin hadn't understood everything he'd heard, but thinking back, as an adult, it was amazing how clearly that conversation could be remembered. He had known at the time that something had changed in Portwenn.

He sadly knew that as a child he felt that Joan thought he should spend summers with his parents. Little did he know there was something even darker about that day…

-oo0oo-

Martin ran joyfully into his Auntie Joan's house carrying a large jar carefully covered with newspaper.

_"Father!"_

His father did not turn from his desk, but said, with a seething voice, _"What have I told you?!"_

Still excited, Martin said, _"I think I found one. A Pale Clouded Yellow..."_

_"Martin!"_

_"Always knock before entering... Sir,"_ said Martin resignedly.

_"Then go outside... AND KNOCK!"_

The shouting startled Martin, and he dropped the jar. His father was on him in an instant, squeezing his throat as he made Martin look up at him. Martin started to feel faint.

"NOW look what you've done! You've made a BLOODY mess! Clean it up!"

His father stormed out, and Martin heard the kitchen door slam. Then he heard the car being started and driven away. He was still trembling as he surveyed the mess.

A tiny movement caught his eye. The butterfly was still fluttering its wings, surrounded by glass pieces! He moved closer and could see the butterfly was under a heavy bottom piece of the broken jar.

Martin reached for the jar piece, intending to lift the glass chunk off the butterfly. Instead, he knocked into its jagged edge, cutting himself deeply. He cried out and pulled his hand back quickly as pain shot through it. For a moment, he couldn't help but forget about the butterfly, and by the time he looked back, he saw the jar bottom had shifted and crushed it. His tears of pain were joined by tears of sadness. He was helpless with despair. Why had he dropped the jar? His father was right. He WAS a weak, careless boy.

Blood was dripping off his hand, and it throbbed at the cut, and he was crying and woozy, and he fainted.

When he awoke, his eyes were puffy and crusty. He rubbed his face, but felt something slick on his fingers. Then he felt the pain in his hand. When he opened his eyes and sat up, he saw he was surrounded by glass shards, had blood on his hands, shirt, and shorts where his hand had probably rested, and then he again saw the crushed butterfly. He threw up.

It took him a while to stop feeling like retching. Then he started to be fearful his father would return and find this mess. Then he started to feel embarrassed that Auntie Joan would show up and see him like this.

He got up and went to the bathroom, where he cleaned his wound, retching a few times as he worked. He found some gauze and tape to cover it. It still hurt.

Next, he went to the kitchen and found a broom and dustpan. He removed the butterfly from the mess and set it aside. After all the glass was swept up, he returned to the kitchen for a bucket of soapy water and a few rags. He did his best to clear the blood and tried not to leave any staining.

After he finished this task, he changed his clothes. Then he buried his blood-covered clothing and the rags, along with the butterfly, out behind the barn.

-oo0oo-

There had been no one Martin could tell this story to. Not then, when his father would only be angry and his aunt disappointed. No friends, either, as he'd spent nearly all his time at school or on the farm. Not all the way until now, when the psychiatrist had drawn it out of him.

Eventually, he'd forgotten all about that day.

-oo0oo-

**Fragile - End of Chapter 11**

**Credits:**

Martin is remembering a conversation with his father from Episode 5-05 "Remember Me" written by Jack Lothian.


	12. Chapter 12

- oo0oo –

**Disclaimer: **Doc Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 12**

James had fallen asleep in Martin's arms. He looked at the peaceful face, tiny lips still making a sucking motion, and he felt protective of this fragile life.

A baby could have a good life, or not. If the parents were ready to be parents, wanted to be parents, and could manage the necessary tasks and partnership needed, then the child's life was off to a good start. Although many types of situations passed through his mind, Martin did not want to think about all the things that could go wrong. His own story had veered negative from the start, and it was enough to try and not think about that.

Dr Davis had said that a childhood trauma could be the cause of Martin's haemophobia. Well, they had certainly found a probable incident. A boy with a bleeding and painful injury, accidentally killing a rare butterfly, which the boy had just been so joyful about finding, throwing up from all of that turmoil, and then having to deal with it all by himself. To top it off, having absolutely no one he could talk to about it. He imagined anger, disappointment, and ridicule from anyone he could have possibly told.

Martin looked down at James and nearly said a prayer that James would never feel so alone, as he once had.

He cradled James in his arm as he stood up, then went to the sink to rinse the bottle parts. He slowly carried James back to his crib.

- oo0oo –

Louisa lay in bed staring into the darkness. Her heart was breaking, again, for her husband. As he'd walked past their bedroom earlier with James, she'd heard what he said about his parents. 'I will never leave you to cry alone, James. Never. I will never leave you when you are hurt, or sad. My parents did that with me. I'm sorry, but because of that, they will not be your grandparents.'

What had they done to this man she loved, when he was only a boy? A couple of years ago, she learned his father had used a belt and a table tennis bat on him, and just before James was born, she heard him mention the cupboard under the stairs. So many other bad things could have been done as well, but she mostly imagined him being ignored to the point where he stopped sharing his thoughts.

Thank goodness he'd had Joan in his life. She helped make him a caring person, despite his parents.

Louisa couldn't decide whether to go to Martin now, or not. She guessed he was feeding James and she didn't want to interrupt their time together. As a mother of a baby, she knew how often she was needed, while a father just had to wait, and try to be helpful, but not have the ultimate means to help. Expressing milk gave her the opportunity to have some time to rest when the baby's random feeding needs occurred. More importantly, it gave Martin a chance to have that closeness with his son.

She imagined James resting in Martin's arms, hearing his reassuring heartbeat. At this moment, in her sadness for him, she longed to be there, comforting him, and also being comforted.

She hoped he would come back to bed soon. It was likely he would. He had been sleeping better, lately. She was fairly sure she hadn't heard him having a nightmare for over a week.

She felt the bed moving, and realised she must have fallen asleep. Martin was back. She turned towards him and wrapped herself around him as he settled.

"Thank you for feeding James," she said, and kissed his cheek.

He turned his face towards her, catching her eyes in the dim light. "My pleasure."

"Was he any trouble?"

Martin thought about that. James was never any trouble, just a bit of a mystery sometimes. He supposed they all were, really. He thought about how James couldn't say, how Louisa sometimes wouldn't say, and how he knew he often didn't know how to say what was wrong.

"No. Just tried a few things, and fed him."

"You're so good with him. Thank you." She shifted up onto an elbow and leaned over and kissed him.

Martin brought his arms up and around her and they moved together, slowly pushing their sad thoughts away, and giving and welcoming pleasure with each other.

-oo0oo-

Lying in the dark, cuddling Louisa, Martin felt happiness. For once, he wasn't wondering why this woman chose him. Well, okay, he still wondered.

The Prolonged Exposure Therapy had helped stop his nightmares, and repeatedly talking about how his mother locked him in the cupboard, how his father nearly choked him unconscious, and how he had to deal with what turned out to be the last day he was allowed to visit Joan as a child had made him remember things differently. He'd always thought it was all his fault, but he knew better now.

He'd learned he DID know what was going on with Joan at the time. As John Slater had said when he was there during Martin's first few months in Portwenn, they'd gone sailing…

-oo0oo-

Martin was in his consulting room checking the man whose dinghy had crashed onto the beach. The man was being annoying.

_"You really don't remember me, do you?"_

_"No, I don't."_ Martin continued writing patient notes.

_"Slater, John Slater, friend of Joan's." _That caught Martin's attention._ "I used to live 'round here, moons ago. I once took you and Joan to Padstow on my boat for the day, but we had to come back early, because you wet yourself and Joan didn't have a spare pair of trousers."_

_"Well, that must be an amusing memory for you."_

-oo0oo-

Martin now knew what had happened that day. He was very uncomfortable being unable to avoid John and Joan flirting with one another. He'd tried to shut off his mind, but eventually his bodily functions demanded attention. Then it was too late. They were away from shore and he wet himself. Thankfully, his aunt had set him straight…

-oo0oo-

On the morning that Slater was leaving Portwenn for the last time, Martin joined his aunt on the cliff overlook.

_"Remember when you asked why your visits stopped?"_ she asked.

He knew. _"Dad."_

_"Yes, somehow or other he found out about me and John. And he said he wouldn't have you staying with a woman guilty of 'gross moral turpitude.' It was a very effective threat. He knew that I loved you like a son."_

_"So, you sent John away for me."_

_"Oh, don't get carried away. For you… and for Phil, as well."_

-oo0oo-

Unfortunately, his father didn't relent. Martin never returned to Cornwall until he could no longer be a surgeon. He was glad he now knew he wasn't to blame.

He was just beginning to drift off when he thought of another matter that preoccupied him at the oddest of times - Louisa's tendency to run away. She'd once stopped dating him, and also moved out when James was only a few weeks old. He couldn't help but worry that he'd force her to leave again, married or not. He sincerely hoped his seeing the psychiatrist had improved his relations with her. What they'd just shared had never been their problem. Communication, however, was a different story. He unconsciously hugged her.

"What is it, Martin?" asked Louisa, hugging him back.

He knew he had to talk with her. It was part of his therapy, and really it was a part of being married, being a partner. He sighed.

"I hope you know how much I do not want to push you away."

"You don't have to worry about that. I'm not going anywhere."

He stayed silent, and maybe that made her realise what he was thinking about.

"I won't leave," she said. "I don't want to. We're in this together."

"What made you stop feeling like… running away?"

"Well, you might as well know. I've been seeing a counselor. Don't worry. It wasn't just anyone. I asked Chris Parsons for a referral."

This was a total surprise to Martin. Never had he thought of this scenario.

"I married you, Martin, knowing that you are not a lively conversationalist. But you usually say just the right thing at the right time. At least, to me.

"I married you, knowing you had been somewhat abused as a child. I'm not saying your abuse was only 'somewhat,' I just didn't and don't know how long it went on.

"I married you, knowing that I gave up on us a couple of times, but knowing, in my heart, that you never did. With our wedding vows, I hoped I could always remember why we got married. It was for each other."

"I thought you'd leave, if I told you my haemophobia was back."

"And I'd honestly like to think that I wouldn't have, that I never will. I love you, Martin."

- oo0oo –

**Fragile - End of Chapter 12**

**Credits:**

Martin is remembering conversations with John Slater and his Aunt Joan from Episode 1-05 "Of All the Harbours in All the Towns" written by Kirstie Falkous & John Regier.


	13. Chapter 13

- oo0oo –

**Disclaimer: **Doc Martin and recognisable storylines and characters belong to Buffalo Pictures and the creative team. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Fragile - Chapter 13**

-oo0oo-

Martin sat unhappily at a table with his boss and an extremely boring surgeon candidate from Glasgow, the remains of their dinners still before them. He glanced at his watch.

Mr Wallace had completed six years as a Surgical Registrar and thought he was ready to fill the hospital's opening for an Associate Specialist Surgeon. His experience only seemed to include bumping into well-known surgeons around London, not, as might be more educational, actually working with them.

Bad company, poor service, and Martin was scheduled to be in theatre in nine hours. His dining companions had been drinking steadily since they arrived at this overstated restaurant, and if his boss hadn't continued to keep him in check with stern glances, he wouldn't still be here.

He hadn't wanted to be here in the first place. His boss had told him where to be, as he had done since Martin took this job.

Although performing surgery once again gave him pride in work, he more and more was growing weary of the commute, even though they lived just south of Wadebridge now. He was annoyed with his boss's drinking. He also didn't like the exponential increase in cosmetic surgery requests that came to the hospital. The amount indicated more want than need. He would have preferred to be part of a specialized team, but the rural location of Duchy Hospital made more general skills necessary.

He was frustrated with his weekend turn in the surgery rota, making for little family time, which was also starting to affect his marriage. Louisa had begun sighing more, lately, whenever he mentioned another change in his work schedule.

Martin had arrived home an hour later, leaving him potentially seven hours of sleep before surgery in the morning. Unfortunately, he found himself tossing and turning, probably from something he'd eaten.

Soon he noticed that Louisa had left their bed, presumably to tend to James, but she had not returned. He worried that she'd decided to sleep in the guest bed, because he was disturbing her. She'd been doing that more and more lately. Sadly, he rolled over, and tried to go back to sleep.

-oo0oo-

Louisa rushed home and James Henry's minder left as she walked into the house. This was how life was, these days, always in a rush. The usual method of passing up-to-date information by chatting about the child, as a parent left for work or arrived home, was generally accomplished via mobile phone as Louisa or the minder rushed to her tiny cottage for the "shift change."

This minder was the fifth one Louisa was trying just this year. She had to admit, she did find fault, but it was the demands of being head teacher that usually made the minders not like how their schedules were unpredictable. She more and more thought a daycare would be best, but James was still so young and Martin preferred paying for a minder.

Martin spent the most time with his son on Saturday or Sunday, and usually a couple of hours on Tuesday, or sometimes Wednesday. Louisa didn't know what they did together, but she could see this arrangement worked well enough. She was glad for the uninterrupted time alone, sometimes for work, and sometimes just to think.

Louisa was still happy to be head teacher, affecting change in Portwenn, and now St Teath and Delabole, since the school district redefined her position. She no longer taught any classes, and had to divide her time among the three locations, an extra burden in inclement weather. She lived east of Portwenn now, more accessible to all three schools, so, that helped a little.

But she was still sorry that she hadn't tried harder in her marriage to Martin. She had just been so tired of the counselor and his simplistic approach to "fixing" what was "broken." She had to admit that after stopping counseling sessions, she had gone back to some old ways of thinking. Their trial separation was hard, but it was tiring how every time she saw Martin, he just looked sad. She closed her eyes to try and nap.

-oo0oo-

The alarm went off, and Louisa tried to shake the sleepiness from her mind. She was still feeling emotional, but was reassured that the solid form of Martin beside her meant that she'd been having a bad dream.

Martin thought about how unhappy he'd felt being a surgeon as he was in his dream. It was not a good dream, leaving him worried about Louisa.

They turned towards each other and relief passed over both their faces. They reached for each other and cuddled together before starting their day in Portwenn.

- oo0oo –

**Fragile - End of Chapter 13**


End file.
